


Mama Gets a Gun

by Doceo_Percepto, Sp00py



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [36]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: AU, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 06:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: A lesson on gun safety and handling.





	Mama Gets a Gun

It’s another Snufkin. Another victim. You watch him from the sidelines as he gets used, played with, and then ripped apart. It’s all the same and you hate to think you’re getting used to it. But life after life gets taken and after a certain point, you become numb. This was an individual, yes, a Snufkin with a personality all of his own, but so too were the last dozen that this nest had mowed down. Once upon a time, your heart would break afresh with every life taken. Now it’s routine. You hate it. You want it to stop. But you… oh, you have no power over this story. 

The stench of blood is painfully thick in the air. It astonishes you that it never bothers anyone else, but it makes you want to vomit. The Joxter untangles himself from the remains, his eyes lidded and pleasure evident across his entire face. 

The last part of this horrific game is the looting, like Snufkin possessions are just prizes to be distributed. Happy gets the Snufkin’s clothes, because his own are so threadbare and worn. A coat and scarf and hat, though Happy doesn’t wear one anymore. You look away, not wanting to watch the mangled Snufkin’s body being stripped bare by the twisted individual that had once been your son. 

Meanwhile, Bendy snatches up the pan flute and skips off, blowing into the holes to make discordant sounds that don’t resemble anything like music. The Joxter brings the Snufkin’s moss green bag over to you and smiles in a way he probably believes is charming.

“Would you like the first choice?” he invites, holding it open. You are about to shake your head — you never take part in the spoils — but something inside glints in the fresh morning sunlight and catches your attention. Something that most Snufkins don’t possess. You lean forward in disbelief.

A _gun_.

A smooth carved wood handle, a glittering metal barrel. Never prone to violence yourself, you’ve never wielded one, but you can recognize it instantly. You can recognize, too, what it can do. All sound ceases around you. This whole time, you've felt helpless. Unable to change anything about your situation. And how could you with that demonic bastard ? It’d kill you the moment you tried to help Happy. You’ve been a captive audience to their depravity and an unwilling participant in so much horror. But as of late, you have stopped caring about your own life, if this charade you are forced to endure can be called a life. You’d almost thought nothing could be done for you or Happy.

But with this… with this, maybe something could be changed. Maybe you both could be freed. 

“Do you like the gun?” the Joxter said cheerfully. “Never been fond of those myself, but you should take it if you like it, dear.”

“Yes,” you reply numbly. You don’t have a solid plan, not yet - you don’t even think you’ll be brave enough to do anything. But your word takes the first step. 

The Joxter digs it out from the bag and then it’s sitting in your palm, heavy and cold. You stare numbly at it. Does it even have bullets? 

“It makes me very glad to see you properly looting, as a Joxter should,” the Joxter says, and pulls out jerky from the bag to nibble on. Blood stains the front of his cloak. He has killed so, so many. 

Although you’ve never shot a gun, your father before you had demonstrated a thing or two. With fingers that don’t feel like your own, you pop out the cylinder. Four shiny silver bullets are in the chamber: only two slots are empty. Your heart is in your throat and you click the cylinder shut. You could hurt the Joxter. You could kill him, before Bendy has even a second to stop you. 

“Wonderful,” the Joxter puts his hands on his hips and surveys the bloody field around them. “Shall we return home?” as if it’s just another day. Which, for him, this kind of murder is. 

The gun warms in your hand as the Joxter calls for Happy and Bendy. It’s so heavy and solid, the first truly solid thing you’ve held in years. It’s like this is real life again, instead of just the fantasy it’s felt like.

Throughout the walk back to the nest, you’re ever aware of it in your possession. Ever aware of the power it holds. You’re not foolish enough to believe it can do a single thing against the demon, but you don’t need it to. Not if you’re quick enough. 

You do your best to pretend to look and sound normal, as if your brain isn’t churning with vivacity rather than clogged by dread and despair. It doesn’t matter how poor of an actor you are. Nobody would ever notice if you were acting off. The Joxter showers you with praises and delight about you finally understanding your place. Bendy and Happy barely give you a glance before they’re frolicking off into the woods.

And you, you crawl back in the nest, breathless. Your fingers dip back into your pocket repeatedly, fondling the cool metal. Daring to believe. It sends shivers down your spine. Your body aches all the time from the demented affections of the Joxter, but now you feel invigorated. Your middle finger traces along the trigger, watching as the Joxter piddles around the fire, doing a whole lot of nothing. 

“Joxter?” you call out. 

“Hm?” he raises his head.

Your fingers wrap around the handle. 

“Won’t you come into the canoe with me?”

His eyes sparkle. “Mama,” he purrs, “so soon after a Snufkin hunt! I suppose you never properly had a turn, did you?”

“Mh.” It’s a disinterested noise, but he never cares.

He laughs. “So you _do_ get riled up after those events. I knew we’d make a true Joxter of you in the end.”

“Yes,” you agree tonelessly. 

It takes him no time at all to crawl into the lush fluffy white bedding of the canoe, and to snuggle right beside you. While his fingers begin to card through your hair, you sniff, test the air. Normally when Bendy and Happy leave the nest, they are gone for long periods of time. Sure enough, Bendy’s scent has only gotten fainter and fainter as the two of them depart. You’re alone with the Joxter. Well and truly alone.

“I was beginning to think you’d never come around,” the Joxter tells you affectionately, stroking your whiskers. It sickens you still, to be touched by him. But you won’t have to endure it any longer.

The gun whips from your pocket. You jam the barrel between his eyes. And you shoot him in his stupid face.

There’s an explosion of sound, followed by a splatter of gore as the bullet exits from the Joxter’s skull. He still has a smile on his face, as his eyes grow unfocused and blood trickles from the neat circle punched through. His body slumps over like he’s nothing more than a puppet. 

You just killed a Joxter. Put a gun against his head. Pulled the trigger. Now he’s dead.

You’re still in the canoe with the Joxter’s cooling corpse when Bendy and Happy return come evening. The Joxter smells terrible — worse than usual, now that he’s rotting underneath all his layers of clothes and blood (mostly Snufkins, some his own) and grime. You had tucked him under the layers of fluff to better hide him, to better conceal what you had done. 

Fortuitously, Bendy and Happy are fucking idiots. They don’t notice a damn thing.

Bendy trots over to the canoe and asks about the Joxter, but you reply very unconvincingly, “he’s just taking a nap. He’ll wake later.”

And Bendy buys it because its skill is murdering people not detecting liars. Honestly, if it wasn’t a giant inky murder machine he’d probably be dead from sheer stupidity at this point. 

Bendy meanders away to do whatever it is it does to pass the time. You make eye contact with Happy, who looks lost without Bendy’s attention and guidance.

“Happy, dear, could you come over here?” You ask. His gaze snaps to you, and you gesture for him to come closer, in case he missed what you said due to his bad ear. After a tentative glance at Bendy, Happy scurries over.

“Sit right here, please.” You wait for him to kneel in front of you and glance over to Bendy, who is tormenting some tiny bug it looks like. Not paying any attention. Good.

You pull out the gun and place the barrel between Happy’s eyes. There is no escape except for in death. He can’t be saved. You can’t be saved. This is how it must be. You’ve got to face the truth.

“I love you, Snufkin,” you say, meaning every single word. You had never loved anyone so much as you had loved him. If there was any other solution, you would have taken it. But there’s not. Happy blinks in confusion, the words probably don’t even register for him anymore. All that matters to him is that monster. 

Your hand is shaking a little as you pull the trigger. You barely see him fall backwards through the tears streaming down your face. He’s free, as a Snufkin should be. Bendy can’t hurt him anymore now.

You look over to Bendy. His gaze is locked on you. He knows. His face begins to melt as he bolts at you, ink dripping down like the tears on your own face, a low roar building.

You taste metal as you put the barrel in your own mouth. There’s a hollow sort of satisfaction knowing that you’ll escape. That Happy’s escaped. Mostly, there’s a tired relief. It’s over.

Bendy’s almost on you, engulfing your vision and blocking out the faint rays of the sunset. This is the last thing you’ll ever see. Your time has come. Nothing really matters. Anyone can see.

You pull the trigger.


End file.
